


all i ever wanted was just to come in from the cold

by tinsnip



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 05:59:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17954921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: When you're younger, everything seems simpler.When you're older, the things you thought were essential fall away, and the things you didn't know you needed... sometimes they matter more than you thought.Snippets of Elim Garak, growing up, learning about what he wants and needs, and what he can't, finally, live without.





	1. we were so young

**Author's Note:**

> This story is wrapped around Joni Mitchell's classic [Come In From The Cold](https://youtu.be/EyDnlopmrYQ). If you enjoy this song, please consider purchasing it.

_back in 1957, we had to dance a foot apart_

_and they hawk-eyed us from the sidelines, holding their rulers without a heart_

_and so with just a touch of our fingers, i could make our circuitry explode_

_all we ever wanted was just to come in from the cold_

 

At Bamarren, one had to be careful about alliances.

Strength was in the group, yes, and having everyone on your side was good to a point - but who _was_ everyone, when you looked at it? Any group would include... undesirables. People whose opinions slanted too far one way or another. And the group would thereby be tainted by these opinions unless it was very, very careful to subdivide.

Everyone was in the group (of course they were).

Everyone was allied (of course they were).

And no one trusted anyone, or shared any secrets unless the chance of gain was immensely greater than the chance of betrayal. The subdivision split the group into single individuals, drifting between brief associations.

This wasn’t how things had to be. It wasn’t how life in general worked; he remembered that to be true. (Although sometimes on long nights, he doubted). There could be friends, and there could be a community. It was essential for most people, for sanity and the building of something greater than one’s own small life.

Here, though, at Bamarren, they were training subdividers. When their studies were done, each graduate would be able to slip into and out of a community, making bonds and breaking them with ease, watching for weak links and those who couldn’t keep up and especially for the ones who might, then, bend the rules to provide for those who couldn’t keep up.

The schooling was meant to make alliances meaningless, to create groups that splintered at a touch. And it did. Smiles were superficial, and gatherings were infrequent except when deemed necessary by the instructors. Safer to be alone within the group...

...and so when he’d found himself with Barkan’s fingers slipped tightly between his own, scales rasping to strike sparks, and Palandine pressed to him with hands soft against his throat, he’d been completely unprepared for how something within him would open softly, wanting—


	2. we were so sure

_we really thought we had a purpose we were so anxious to achieve_

_we had hope - the world had promise for a slave to liberty_

_really, i slaved away for something better_

_and i was bought and sold_

_and all i ever wanted was just to come in from the cold_

 

Working for Tain was more than he could have imagined.

Food, all he wanted. Too much sometimes, and he had to watch his weight. After a life of just enough, this level of plenty was wasteful. He had leftovers after every meal. _Leftovers!_

But Tain laughed when it was mentioned. _You need it,_ he said, _you have to be strong._

He was stronger now, yes. He was stocky, centre of gravity low, able to fight if needed. Mila smiled and prodded his belly gently when he visited, pride radiating from her: her son was strong.

He had information, too: Tain gave him that. He learned, devouring: poetry, epics, the literature of academies he’d never attend. Frivolity, said some colleagues who were rather devoted to reading only government truth, and he’d smile and slide his gaze away. As long as it didn’t affect his work, what was the harm in an escape now and then? So much to know, not just Cardassian - Vulcan, Romulan, myriad cultures outside the Union’s sanctioned sameness. It sharpened his thinking, gave him new ways in.

He had safety under Tain. He’d never been so well defended. While he lived under the Order’s protection, he knew his life was valued. He was useful. Resources had been spent on him. He was not to be wasted. The child he’d once been had been nothing but potential and a mouth to feed, cast aside easily enough; now he walked where he pleased, spreading both loyalty and fear, and he was untouchable.

He had so much, and while he basked in it, some little part of him gnawed at itself, knowing: he wasn’t remotely worthy of it. So it remained to him to perform tasks that were worthy of what was given to him. Any job, any task: he’d volunteer, smiling and eager, and his colleagues would edge away slightly, wary of someone who seemingly had so little regard for his own life. He rarely took time away from the job - only when ordered after a narrow-eyed doctor’s review - and he worked from the moment of waking to the moment he dropped into his bed, dead tired and already half-asleep.

He was making the world better. He was hopeful, upholding Cardassia: his small efforts would boost the greater good. In that was his worthiness. For that, he would be a slave.

A stupid, naive belief, looking back. Stupid, but it had seemed the only thing to be: to be Tain’s most useful, most relied-upon and adaptable tool, sharp as steel, to carve out the soft places and delve into the dangerous places and to be always, always at hand.

It seemed clear, now, that even the most useful tool could easily stop being a pleasant novelty and become, instead, an expectation. If the tool was damaged, there was little relief upon its repair; instead, there was frustration at its not having been present in the first place.

Every day, smiling and eager. Every day, dawn to dusk. No indulgences permitted to him - by himself! he’d sucked _himself_ dry! - and so when he’d suddenly found sweetness in his life again, unexpected and secret and soft at his throat, he’d completely failed to limit his indulgence. He’d never taught himself moderation; instead, it had been enforced, and he’d only complied. Since Bamarren he’d functioned as demanded, eating as directed, exercising as directed, not understanding how a small taste of something forbidden could suddenly lead one to slip into larger indulgences if not held in check, and since no one knew of this indulgence, no one could hold him in check—

He’d split himself into two people, one who worked and one who lived only for the next moment of pleasure, of connection, and when those two people had unexpectedly been crushed back into conjunction by Tain’s discovery, he’d crumbled, not very much like steel at all.

Tools were things, not people. He’d forgotten that. He was, under it all, still a person. Still, predictably, wanting and weak.

 

 


	3. you were too warm

_i feel your legs under the table, leaning into mine_

_i feel renewed, i feel disabled by these bonfires in my spine_

_i don’t know who the arsonist was, which incendiary soul_

_but all i ever wanted was just to come in from the cold_

 

Exile had been, in a strange way, the thing he’d needed to moderate himself.

There was still food: replicators enough to feed a station full of people. He could have over-indulged if he liked. Instead, he watched his weight, not for Order doctors, but because it would be unthinkably embarrassing to allow his strength to fail. He was still being watched, or so he liked to think. He’d stay strong, then, for spite.

There was still information: easily accessible from his terminal once its few restrictions were bypassed. What was more, it was information uncensored, unsanctioned. He’d thought the increased access the Order had brought him was a flood; now he saw that it had been a moderated flow, deemed safe for consumption. What he could access now might not be safe, might be a wrong choice; still, wrapped in blankets, lights to full in his quarters, chewing on guilt, he read and read, and found it wasn’t too much, was instead exactly what he needed to satisfy him.

There was still safety: for no one here knew who he was or had any desire to hurt him. He worked very hard at being harmless, something that was amusingly made much easier by his Order training. He knew when to smile, when to laugh, even in a blend of cultures that weren’t his own. He kept to himself and made light conversation and stayed in at night. He exuded plain, simple dullness, and was satisfied that he was as safe as he could possibly be.

He _was_ satisfied. Purposeless, but satisfied.

And then, abruptly, he wasn’t.

Meeting Doctor Bashir was a complication he really didn’t need, and it put wrinkles into the smooth existence he’d created. Bashir smiled and laughed and put his nose into everything. Bashir stayed up too late, got up too early, ate too fast. Bashir seemed to be working as hard as possible to burn himself out, and yet he only burned more brightly with each burst of ridiculous enthusiasm.

He was fascinating to watch. He was more fascinating up close. And he liked to talk. And he wanted to talk to _Garak._

It would have been easier, certainly smarter, to stay dull. Instead, he suddenly found himself trying very hard indeed to be _interesting,_ to keep the conversation going, to share little insights and tidbits and to argue with someone who was actually paying attention.

Bashir was new and different, challenged him, made him think—

—and one day their knees brushed under the table, and suddenly he realized, with wanting opening within him, that satisfaction had receded yet again.


	4. i was so low

_i am not some stone commission like a statue in a park_

_i am flesh and blood and vision_

_i am howling in the dark_

_long, blue, the shadows of the jackals are falling on a payphone by the road_

_oh, all they ever wanted was just to come in from the cold_

 

He thought about it later that night, staring up at the ceiling in dimness.

The smart course would, obviously, be to stop talking to Bashir. No, pull it back, extremes were never good and led to trouble; instead, he’d stop the regular meetings. They’d become something he looked forward to immensely. That was a clear sign of trouble in itself. The two of them could meet in passing, exchange an anecdote or two, and then move on in their respective spheres.

It would be easy enough. He was trying hard to be interesting, after all. He could just stop trying. Bank his passion, pull it down to disinterest, and Bashir would drop away.

In the dark, his chest expanded, thrummed, and he felt his heart beating, blood shivering through his veins.

The thought alone dropped him low, left him shaking his head: impossible.

And another thought, surprising him: _oh, not again..._

Exile had made him pragmatic. Food, knowledge, safety: these were the things he’d determined over the course of his life that he really needed. Take away one of them, and he staggered; take away two or three and he fell apart. Three things, available now in abundance, and he was moderating them all well. He’d prided himself on it, he now realized. He’d been smug at how they’d failed to break him.

It seemed there’d been a fourth need, somehow suppressed, undermining his foundation. It had masqueraded as luxury, to be hidden from teachers and superiors until, always, it was unmasked and betrayed all he’d worked for. Without knowing, he’d been trying to teach himself not to need it.

He needed to _connect._

Barkan and Palandine, once; Palandine, later: he’d wanted them and they’d wanted him, and when they weren’t near him everything was fine until they _were_ again and everything fell out from under him.

Apparently when he’d lost everything, he’d thought this little want, this _need_ had dried up at its root.

His heart beat. His blood flowed, and he shivered.

It had only slept, waiting for the warmth that had expanded within him, reminding him now that he wasn’t his own creation, was _alive,_ could not subsume his needs, not completely, not ever.

_Oh, Palandine._

If it hadn’t been her, it would have been someone else: eventually, sentiment would have betrayed him, no matter what his choices.

He thought of the faces that had surrounded him when Tain had smiled, shaking his head. They’d known what he’d done. They were creatures of flesh and blood and sentiment just like him, and each one would be betrayed one day. Perhaps they’d be just as surprised as he was.

At least he knew his betrayer.

Perhaps it was time to see what it was about himself, exactly, that was missing. Perhaps it was time to meet the betrayer face to face.


	5. it was so pure

_is this just vulgar electricity?_

_...is this the edifying fire?_

_does your smile’s covert complicity debase as it admires?_

_are you just checking out your mojo?_

_...am i just fighting off growing old?_

_all i ever wanted was just to come in from the cold_

 

At times, when Bashir isn’t with him, he finds himself arguing the situation in his back-brain:

_Vulgar sentiment—_

_But how can it feel so necessary? It must be essential—_

_Nothing is essential if it’s only for the self. Who are you serving?_

_Myself, myself, and if I don’t serve myself how can I serve anything greater?_

It’s somewhat hard to tell how he really feels about things.

Of course, that’s when Bashir isn’t with him. When he is, it’s all very simple:

_Oh, I need this._

Bashir is clever, making him think. Bashir prods at him, laughing. Bashir carries warmth with him, sharing it freely. Bashir is obnoxious to the point of aggravation and kind to the point of resentment and he can’t, _can’t_ turn away.

Thankfully, Bashir can keep a secret. Garak would much rather the station didn’t know his personal business. It’s easier to keep on being dull and harmless. Bashir accepts this and doesn’t pry as to why Garak might feel this way - accepts it so easily, in fact, that Garak suddenly finds himself wondering if it isn’t much easier for Bashir to keep it a secret too.

_Once again, I’m someone’s dirty little secret._

Ah, well; it’s always been this way, hasn’t it? Dark corridors at Bamarren, moonlit gardens in residential streets...

And it’s very easy to put away any resentment when he can pull Bashir close to him in the darkness, wrapped in blankets, and taste his skin, feel the pulse underneath, have him all to himself.

The whole situation is more than a little foolish: young, bright-eyed Bashir, and himself decidedly more... mature. He sometimes wonders if this is some last gasp at youth, this time making as many bad choices as possible. It would certainly make much more sense to fall madly in love if they were _both_ too young to know better.

He knows there’s no possible future to this. They’ll spin around each other for a time, and then Bashir will move on to whatever bright thing awaits him, while Garak... won’t. And that’s important to remember, too: the only thing that really matter are things that will leave a legacy after he is gone. He and Bashir cannot build any kind of lasting bond, and therefore this doesn’t matter.

Still, though... it’s confusing. There’d been something  more to this before Bashir had ever touched him, even if he hadn’t realized it until bonfires had flared to life. This is something growing, something that makes him want to promise, to pledge; to join boundaries and to protect; to flare himself in gavrUn and stalk Bashir’s enemies and carry home tribute. To do, in short, all the things the poets sang about, and a few more he’d composed himself in startlingly bad verse.

He’s acting as if this _can_ last beyond the moment. He’s making it his legacy. He’s bending himself to fit Bashir’s needs, to support him. When he steps back and looks at himself, he’s astonished at how his focus has warped: Cardassia and her future receding, and in her place, a slowly-building future that he doesn’t fully understand.

He should moderate himself. He should. But there’s no one to teach him to do so, and Bashir is an astonishingly bad model of moderation.

 

 


	6. when the moon shines

_i know we never will be perfect, never entirely clear_

_we get hurt and we just panic_

_and we strike out, out of fear_

_i fear the sentence of this solitude, 200 years on hold_

_oh, all we ever wanted was just to come in from the cold_

 

“I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you,” says Bashir, flatly and low-voiced, and Garak is brought to a stop—

Cardassia is in ruins. The images shatter him, startle him, and suddenly, again, he’s wanting, needing:

_I have to go._

Despite the company he’ll have to keep and the way his mind flatly denies the possibility of survival— _it would have stopped me, once..._

Not now.

Bashir had heard about Garak’s plans at the same time everyone else had. To his credit, the only sign of his reaction had been the sudden splash of colour in his cheeks.

Now that they’re alone, his reaction is a good deal more evident. _Insane,_ is his main objection to Garak’s plan, followed closely by _incredibly dangerous_ , and Garak can’t argue with either of these facts. _Selfish_ is then thrown at him, which seems disingenuous and rather self-serving, an observation to which Bashir does not react well.

The shouting spirals up until suddenly Bashir bites off a sentence halfway through, mouth working, then slumps as if the air has been let out of him. He sits heavily, elbows on knees and hands to his face, and when he looks up at Garak—

_The rest of your life?_

Perhaps Bashir has been listening to the poets sing, too.

He blinks, thinking, trying to phrase what may in fact be impossible to explain to a non-Cardassian:

 _Cardassia_ is _my life._

Yes, Cardassia had sent him away. The ideal Cardassia, pure and perfect, and he’d mourned and forgotten it as forever unattainable to him. He’d realized, traitorously, that it was never real to start with, making him an exile twice over.

Now, though, the _reality_ of Cardassia is calling him back. The imperfections of Cardassia are finally visible and can, perhaps, finally be mended. He can’t ignore that. He’s not fool enough to think his contribution will be particularly significant - but here is strength in the group in its purest form, and each solitary spark can lift the blaze brighter.

He opens his mouth to speak, stops, looks at Bashir.

“I... would like to spend my life with you, too.”

Unspoken until now, and Bashir’s brows lift—

“And I am going back to Cardassia.”

Nothing is resolved that night. When Bashir leaves, he trails sadness and a sort of wounded dignity that hurts more than his anger did. Garak is left alone in his quarters, staring at nothing much, exploring his mind to find the pulled-tooth ache of a need unsatisfied...

He doesn’t find it.

He’s still connected, still aflame.

He closes his eyes, looks within himself, feels whatever is burning within him warm him to his fingertips.

A chance to _tend_ Cardassia, to make her what she could be... it’s a balm for a lifetime of attempts to be good enough for her, and it pours over his sore places, soothing him.

He _has_ to go.

Later, he’ll find Bashir, and they’ll talk. They have a lifetime to do that, now. Perhaps not a long lifetime, at least on his end, but words have been spoken that can’t be taken back, and those words, too, are a balm.

Just for now, though, he sits, exhausted. He laces his hands under his chin, rests his head on his hands and closes his eyes, feeling warmth.


	7. you were so kind

_when i thought life had some meaning, then i thought i had some choice_

_and i made some value judgments in a self-important voice_

_but then absurdity came over me, and i longed to lose control_

_oh, all i ever wanted was just to come in from the cold_

 

The repairs are slow, the toll so high.

Once again he volunteers, first to take the unpleasant tasks. He carries corpses and lifts smashed stone. He digs through rubble, refusing to panic as it shifts around him. He filters water, arm moving from puddle to pitcher until his fingertips are numb; later they spark at him, keeping him from sleep. He’s covered in sand and mud most of the time, and those are the good days.

He’s very, very tired. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, sometimes things seem very, very funny.

In the moments of exhaustion between necessities, he laughs at himself. He _has_ to. He’s absurd. He’s back home, and he’s working himself to near-breakdown because he is so desperately needed, and he has the _audacity_ to complain to himself about it.

It feels so good to be needed again. _Really_ needed this time, needed to make life possible, instead of just trimming off the rotten edges of a large, mostly-comfortable mass.

To think that he’d really believed, once upon a time, that his work was essential. That he had to keep Cardassia pure to make her better. He’d so thoroughly believed the fiction that it gave his life meaning.

_And how important could I be when I could be so easily disposed of?_

He’d been told that he had deserved all he was given, that without him Cardassia would destabilize, fracture, and _then_ that he had betrayed her so badly that the only way to undo the damage he’d done was to send him away—

_Ridiculous!_

He laughs out loud, garnering a strange look from another in the dormitory, who pointedly turns over on his bedroll. Not particularly penitent, he still covers his mouth with his hand to muffle his laughter.

How can it be that he feels this complete? How can it be that he can _smile?_

He doesn’t have enough food.

The concept of safety in these conditions is laughable.

But he’s learning, every day he’s learning: how to lift and carry and build, and how to be part of a group, really be part of it, essential and trusted and there, in the sum of it all, is why he laughs at himself: finally, he is connected, needed by the group, perhaps not welcomed but, oh, it’s enough for now. Later, one day, perhaps he can find Bashir again. Perhaps there’ll be time to make something the poets can sing about.

For now, when he drops off to sleep, he hears the breathing of those around him, all just like him; he drowses in the group, wanting for nothing, and he’s warm.


End file.
